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The BLIND
MAN’S
EYES
Q
By Will iam MacHarg
Edwin Balmer
Copyright by Little, Brown and Company
CHAPTER XXl—Continued.
—l7
As he struggled forward, Impatient
at these delays, he came several
times upon narrow, unguarded roads
and crossed them; at other times the
little wilderness which protected him
changed suddenly to a well-kept lawn
where some great house with its
garages and outbuildings loomed
ahead, and afraid to cross these open
places, he was obliged to retrace his
steps and find a way round. The dis
tance from the bridge to the place
where the men he was following had
got out of their motor, he had thought
to be about two miles; but when he
had been traveling more than an hour,
he had not yet reached it. Then,
suddenly he came upon the road for
which lie was looking; somewhere to
the east along it was the place he
sought. He crouched as near to the
road as he dared and where he could
look up and down it. This being a
main road, was guarded. A motor
car with armed men in it passed Him.
and presently repassed, evidently pa
troling the road; its lights showed
him a man with a gun standing nt the
first bend of the road to the east.
Eaton drew further bacK and moved
parallel to the road but far enough
away from it to be hidden. A quarter
of a mile further he found a second
man. The motorcar, evidently, was
patroling only to this point; another
car was on duty beyond this. As
Eaton halted, this second car ap
proached, and was halted, backed
and turned.
Its headlights swept through the
woods and revealed Eaton. The man
standing in the road cried out the
alarm and fired at Eaton point blank;
he tired a second and third time.
Eaton fled madly back into the shad
ow; as lie did so, he heard the men
crying to one another and leaping
from the car and following him. He
retreated to the woods, went further
along and came back to the road, ly
ing flat upon his face again and wait
ing till some other car In passing
should give him light to see.
Eaton, weak and dizzy from his
wounds and confused by darkness and
his struggle through the woods, had
no exact idea how long it had taken
him to get to this place; but he knew
that it could have been hardly less
than two hours since he had left Har
riet. The men he was following,
therefore, had that much start of
him, and this made him wild with im
patience but did not discourage him.
His own wounds, Eaton understood,
made his escape practically impossi
ble, because any one who saw him
would at once challenge and detain
him; and the other man was still more
seriously wounded. It was not his es
cape that Eaton feared; it was con
cealment of him. The mun had been
taken from the car because His condi
tion was so serious that there was no
hope of hiding it; Eaton thought he
must be dead. He expected to find
the body concealed under dead leaves,
hurriedly hidden.
The night had cleared a little; to
the north, Eaton could see stars. Sud
denly the road and the leafless bushes
at its sides flashed out in the bright
light of a motorcar passing. Eaton
strained forward. He had found the
place he sought; there was no doubt
a car had turned off the road some
time before and stopped there. The
passing of many cars had so tracked
the road that none of the men In the
motors seemed to have noticed any
thing of significance there; but Eaton
saw plainly in the soft ground at
the edge, of the woods the footmarks
of two men walking one behind the
other. When the car had passed, he
crept forward in the dark and fingered
the distinct heel and toe marks in
the soft soil. For a little distance
he could follow them by fe..ing; then
as they led him into the edge of the
woods the ground grew harder and
he could no longer follow them In
that way.
It was plain to him what had oc
curred ; two men had got out of the
car here and had lifted out and car
ried away a third. He knelt where
he could feel the last footsteps he
could detect and looked around.
The wound in his shoulder no long
er bled, but the pain of it twinged
him through and through; his head
throbbed with the hurt there; his feet
were raw and bleeding where sharp
and branches had cut through
his socks and torn the flesh; his skin
was hot and dry with fever, and his
head swam.
There was not yet light enough to
see any distance, but ' ’aton, accus
tomed to the darkness and bending
close to the ground, could discern the
footmarks even on the harder soil.
They led away from the road Into
the woods. On the rotted leaves and
twigs was a dark stain; a few steps
beyond there was another. Eaton
picking up a leaf and fingering it,
knew’ that they were blood. So the
man was not dead when he had been
lifted from the car. But he had been
hurt desperately, was unable to help
himself, was probably dying; if there
had been any hope for him, His com
panions would not be carrying him
In this way away from any cnance of
surgical attention.
Eaton followed, as the tracks led
through the woods. The men had
gone very slowly, carrying tills heavy
weight. They had stopped frequently
to rest and had laid their burden
down. Then suddenly he came to a
place where plainly a longer halt had
been made.
The ground was trampled around
this spot; when the tracks went on
they were changed in character. The
two men were still carrying the third
—a heavy man whose weight strained
them and made their feet sink In
deeply where the ground war soft.
But now they were not careful how
they carried him, but went forward
merely as though bearing a uead
weight. Now, too, no more stains ap
peared on the brown leaves where
they had passed; their burden no
longer bled. Eaton, realizing what
this meant, felt neither exultation
nor surprise. He had known that the
man they carried, though evidently
alive when taken from the car, was
dying. But now he watched the tracks
more closely even than before, look
ing for them to show him where the
men had got rid of tlieir burden.
It was quite plain what had oc
curred ; the wet sand below was train
pled by the feet of three or four men
and cut by a boat’s bow. They had
taken the body away with them in the
boat. To sink it somewhere weighted
with heavy stones in the deep water?
Eaton’s search wa. hopeless now.
But it could not be so; it must not
be sol Eaton’s eyes searched fever
ishly the shore and the lake. But
there was nothing in sight upon either.
He crept back from the edge of the
bluff, hiding beside a fallen log
banked witn dead leaves. What was
It he had said to Harriet? “I will
come back to you—as you have never
known me before!” He rehearsed the
words In mockery. How would he re
turn to her now? As he moved, a
fierce, hot pain from the clotted wound
in his shoulder shot him through and
through with agony and the silence
and darkness of unconsciousness over
whelmed him.
CHAPTER XXII
Not Eaton—Overton.
Santoine awoke at five o’clock. The
blind man felt strong and steady; he
had food brought him; while he was
eating it, his messenger returned.
Santoine saw the man alone and,
when he had dismissed him, he sent
for his daughter.
Harriet went up to him fearfully.
The blind man seemed calm and quiet;
a thin, square packet lay on the bed
beside him; he held it out to her
without speaking.
She snatched it in dread; the shape
of the packet and the manner in
which it was fastened told her it
must be a photograph. "Open it,” her
father directed.
“What is it you want to know, Fa
ther?" she asked.
“That Is the picture of Eaton?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
She tried to assure herself of the
shade of the meaning in her father’s
tone; but she could not. She under
stood that her recognition of the pic
ture had satisfied him in regard to
something over which he had seen In
doubt; but whether this was tj work
in favor of Hugh and herself—she
thought of herself now inseparably
with Hugh—or whether it threatened
them, she could not tell.
“Father, what does this mean?” she
cried to him.
“What, dear?”
“Your having the picture. Where
did you get it?”
“I knew where It might be. I sent
for it."
“But —but, Father —” It came to
her now that her father must know
who Hugh was. “Who—”
“I know who he is now,” ser fa
ther said calmly. “I will tell you wtun
I can.”
“When you can?”
“Yes,” he said. “Where Is Avery?”
as though his mind had gone to an
other subject Instantly.
“He has not been in, I believe, since
noon.”
“He is overseeing the search for
Eaton ?"
“Yes.”
“Send for him. Tell him I wish to
see him here at the house; he is to
remain within the house until I have
seen him.”
Something in her father’s tone
HENRY COUNTY WEEKLY, McDONOUGH, GEORGIA.
startled ana perplexed her; she
thought of Donald now only as the
most eager and most vindictive of
Eaton’s pursuers. Wa* her father
removing Donald from among those
seeking Eaton? Was he sending for
him because what he had just learned
was something which would mnke
more rigorous and desperate the
search? The blind man's look and
manner told her nothing.
"You mean Donald is to wait here
until you send for him, Father?”
“That is it.”
It was the blind man’s tone of dis
missal. He seemed toJmve forgotten
the picture; at least, ire his daughter
moved toward the door, he ~ave no
direction concerning it. She halted,
looking bock nt him. She would not
carry the picture away, secretly, like
this. She was not ashamed of her
love for-Eaton; whatever might he said
or thought of him, she trusted him;
she was proud of her love for him.
“May I take the picture?” rhe asked
steadily.
“Do whatever you want with it,”
her father answered quietly.
And so she took It with her. She
found a servant of whom she inquired
for Avery; he had not returned so
she sent 'w him. She went down to
the deserted library and waited there
with the picture of Hugh in her hand.
The day had drawn to dusk. She
could no longer see the picture in the
fading light; shg could only recall ItD
and now, as the recalled it, the pfc
ture Itself —not her memory of her
father’s manner iu relation to it —
gave her vague discomfort. She got
up suddenly, switched on the light
and, holding the picture close to It,
studied it. What it was in the pic
ture that gave her this strange un
easiness quite separate and distinct
from nil that she had felt when she
first looked nt It, she could not tell;
but the more she studied it, the more
troubled and frightened she grew.
The picture was a plain, unre
touched print pasted upon common
square cardboard without photogra
pher’s emboss or signature; and
printed with the picture, were four
plain, distinct numerals —8253. She
did not know what they meant or if
they had any real significance, but
somehow now she was more afraid
for Hugh than she had been. She
trembled as she held the picture again
to her cheek and then to her lips.
She turned; some one had come in
from tlie hall; it was Donald. She
saw at her first glance at him that his
search had not yet succeeded and she
threw her head back In relief. See
ing tlie light, he had looked into the
library idly; but when he sa 7 her,
he approached her quickly.
“What have you there?” he demand
ed of her.
She flushed at the tone- “What
right have you to ask?” Her instant
Impulse had been to conceal the pic
ture, but that would make It seem she
was ashamed of It; she held It so Don
ald could see it if he looked. He did
look and suddenly seized the picture
from her. “Where did you get this,
Harriet?”
“Don!”
“Where did you get it?” he repeat
ed. “Are you ashamed to say?”
“Ashamed? Father gave it to me I”
“Your father!” Avery started; but
if anything had caused him apprehen
sion, It instantly disappeared. “Then
didn’t he tell you who this man Eaton
is? What did he say to you?"
“What do you mean, Don?”
He put the picture down on the
table beside him and, as she rushed
for It, he seized both her hands and
held her before him. “Harry, dear!”
he said to her. “Harry, dear—”
“Don’t call me that! Don’t speak
to me that way!" She struggled to
free herself from him.
“I know, of course,” he said. "It’s
because of him.” He jerked his head
toward the picture on the table; the
manner made her furious.
“Let me go, Don!”
“I’m sorry, dear.” He drew her to
him, held her only closer.
“Don; Father wants to see you! He
wanted to know when he came in; he
will let you know when you can go
to him.”
“When did he tell you that? When
he gave you the picture?”
“Yes.”
Avery had almost let her go; now
he held her hard again. “Then he
wanted me to tell you about this
Eaton.”
“Why should he have you tell me
about —Mr. Eaton?”
“You know!” he said to her.
“What have you to say about him,
Donald?”
“You must never think of him again,
dear; you must forget him forever!”
“Donald, I am not a child. If you
have something to say which you con
sider hard for me to hear, tell It to
me at ouce.”
“Very well. Perhaps that is best.
Dear, either this man whom you have
known as Eaton will never be found
or, if he is found, he cannot be let to
live. Harry, have you never seen a
picture with the numbers printed in
below like that? Can’t you guess yet
where your father must have sent for
that picture? Don’t you know what
those numbers mean?”
“What do thev mean?”
“They are the figures of his num
ber in what is called ‘The Rogues’
Gallery.’ And they moan he has com
mitted a crime and been tried an;!
convicted of It; they mean In this case
that he has committed a murder I”
“A murder!”
"For which he was convicted aud
sentenced.”
“Sentenced!”
“Yes; and is alive now only because
before the sentence could be carried
out, he escaped. That man, Philip
Eaton, is Hugh—”
“Hugh !”
“Hugh Overton, Harry!”
“Hugh Overton!”
“Yes; I found It out today. The
police have just learned It, too. I was
coming to tell your father. He’s
Hugh Overton, the murderer of Mat
thew Latron!”
“No; no!”
‘Wes, Harry; for this man Is cer
tainly Hugh Overton.”
B Isn t so I I know It Isn’t so!"
‘W ou mean he told you he was—•
some one else, Harry?"
“No; I mean—" She faced him de
fiantly. “Father let ine keep the pho
tograph. I asked him, and he said,
‘Do whatever you wish with it.’ He
knew I meant to keep it! He knows
who Hugh Is, so lie would not have
said that, if—lf—»
She heard a sound behind her nnd
turned. Her father had come Into
the room. And ns she saw his man
ner and bis face she knew that what
Avery had just told her was the truth.
She shrank away from them. Her
bands went to her face and bid it.
She knew now why It was that her
father, on bearing Hugh’s voice, had be
come curious about him, had tried to
place the voice In It is recollection —-
tlie voice of a prisoner on trial for his
life, heard only for an Instant hut
fixed upon his mind by the circum
stances attending It, though those cir
cumstances afterward had been for
gotten. She knew why she, when she
bad gazed at the picture a few minutes
before, bad been disturbed and fright
ened at feeling it to be a kind of pic
ture unfamiliar to her and threatening
her with something unknown and ter
rible. She knew the reason now for a
score of tilings Hugh had said to her,
for the way he bad looked many times
when she had spoken to him. It ex
plained all that! It seemed to her, In
the moment, to explain everything—
except one tiling. It did not explain
Hugh himself; the kind of man he
was, the kind of man she knew him
to be —the man she loved —he could
not be a murderer!
Her bands dropped from her face;
she threw her head back proudly and
triumphantly, as she faced now both
Avery and her father.
“He, the murderer of Mr. Latron!”
she cried quietly. “It Isn’t so I”
The blina man was very pale; be
was fully dressed. A servant had sup
ported him and helped him down the
stairs and still stood beside him sus
taining him. Blit the will which hnd
conquered his disability of blindness
was holding him firmly now against
the disability of his hurts; be seemed
composed nnd steady. She saw com
passion for her in Ills look; nnd com
passion—under tlie present circum
stances —terrified her. Stronger, far
more in control of him than his com
passion for her, she saw purpose. Sho
recognized that her father bad como
to a decision upon which he now was
going to act; she knew that nothing
she or anyone else could say would
alter that decision and that he would
employ his every power in acting
upon it.
The blind man seemed to check him
self an instant In the carrying out of
his purpose; he turned his sightless
eyes toward her. There was emotion
in his look; but, except that this emo
tion was in part pity for her, she
could not tell exactly what ids look
expressed.
“Will you wait for me outside, Har
riet?” he said to her. “I shall not be
long.”
She hesitated; then she felt sud
denly the futility of opposing him and
she passed him and went out into the
hall. The servant followed her, clos
ing the door behind him. She stood
Just outside the door listening. She
beard her father —she could catch the
tone; she could not make out the
words —asking a question; she heard
the sound of Avery’s response. She
started back nearer the door and put
her hand on It to open It; inside they
were still talking. Rlie caught Avery’s
tone more clearly now, and it sudden
ly terrified her. She drew back from
the door and shrank away. There had
been no opposition to Avery In her
father’s tone; she was certain now
that he was only discussing with
Avery what tfte.v were to do.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Great Man’s Words of Wisdom.
Most of the misery and suffering
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tinguished if men would do unto
others as they would have others do
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“Win hearts, and you have all men’s
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Course Teacher Needs.
The greater part of the art of teach
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